


Ghost Town

by Kali_Blue



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Robot/Human Relationships, Romance, Slow-ish burn, Smut, possibly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 15:35:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5461859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kali_Blue/pseuds/Kali_Blue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back in pre-war society, Evelyn's penchant for computer hacking had been the most problematic aspect of herself. In a post-apocalyptic wasteland, well, it was the least problematic, and these days she’s using those skills to blow up robots. She feels guilty, but that’s life.</p><p>Those skills come in handy in the rescue of a former friend, Paladin Danse, who mysteriously shows up on her radar one day – except he doesn’t know her or have any recollection of his involvement with the Brotherhood of Steel. </p><p>Danse doesn’t know who he is, or where he came from, so he certainly can’t account for the way his chest aches every time Evelyn touches him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghost Town

_‘I’m sorry.’ Her hand shakes as her pistol rests against the older man’s forehead._

_‘I’m not.’ The man tells her gently, grey eyes never leaving hers for a second. She hates this, hates that she’s been forced into this situation. She thought life among the wasteland had deadened her feelings towards killing and death. Right now, though, she feels as frightened and as useless as the first time she’d crawled out of the vault and forced to bludgeon an emaciated man to death with a crow bar. A man whose only crime was that he was desperate and starving and noticed that she’d had a tiny bit of food on her._

_It’s kill or be killed._

_It’s what she tries to tell herself as she pulls the trigger and the older man’s brains splatter on white-washed walls. It’s what she tells herself as the alarms sound out and she winds her way along barren white halls. It’s what she tells herself when she grabs the boy from his room and makes her way out._

_Kill or be killed._

 

****

 

War. It never changes.

It was something Nate used to say to her on occasion when he came back from the front lines. She knew when it was coming. A look would pass his face, eyes vacant and lips twisting upwards in something that was in no way a smile. Then he would meet her own worried eyes and, as if suddenly realising what he’d said, shake his head and force himself to smile at her.

Back then, she’d only vaguely grasped the meaning behind that expression. Her mouth would go dry and her stomach would lurch in response, and she’d try to console him, immediately open her mouth to offer some useless platitude. Tell him that he’d done the right thing. That he’d fought for his country. Had saved lives. More importantly than all of that, he’d survived the war to come home to his wife and son.

She would have said anything, really, if it meant that hollowed-eyed expression would go away

Evelyn often wondered what happened to that woman of so long ago. She knew, and even Codsworth had recently remarked in that perpetually worried tone of his, that she barely resembled the woman who had crawled out of the vault. Pre-war Evelyn would have felt guilty about reprogramming a robot to turn on their masters. Pre-war Evelyn would not have been able to turn a gun on a fellow human-being. Heck, she wouldn’t have been able to turn it on a ghoul or a synth.

Pre-war Evelyn would not have been capable of cold pre-meditated murder.

Things are certainly different these days, she notes with a grim sort of amusement as she jams a cable into the exposed circuitry of a Mr Handy robot. Grey, almond shaped eyes move down to the pip-boy strapped to her wrist. Her fingers flick rapidly over the green-lit screen. The octopus – like robot falls silent, many limbs rearranging themselves closely to its body, and for a second she thinks she’s been unsuccessful. Then the rusty thing chugs to life and she breathes in relief. Evelyn tugs the cable free and winds it back into the pip-boy.

She wonders how the scavengers had even managed to get their greasy mitts on one the first place, but the fact they did just works in her favour. Evelyn strongly prefers to kill quickly, if not quietly, and running in with guns blazing is her last resort. The machine spins around and floats through the door.

Evelyn leans back against the wall and slides away from the apartment window. She’s far to exposed as it is, and the last thing she needs is to get her head blown off by some opportunistic sniper below. She moves away just enough so she can’t be seen, but close enough she can still see the view outside. The high-rise structure had been an apartment building at one stage, in surprisingly good condition for a building passing two hundred. Still, it’s nothing special. It’s just like one of the many dilapidated and crumbling structures she can see among the Boston wasteland and trailing off into the distance. The view from the fourth floor is pretty, for the moment, and the sky a rare blue. If one squinted enough, they could pretend the dead, twisted trees below actually had some foliage.

She used to try doing that, once upon a time. It reminded her of pre-war home with its white picket fence. Now she’s just given up, so she turns and looks into the room instead.

There’s nothing much here - it’s been picked clean well before she entered it, just a single-room apartment with a partially destroyed kitchen, some pre-war junk and a duffle bag with a suspicious blood stain. She runs a hand through her black shoulder-length hair nervously before hooking her fingers into her jean pockets, but there’s nothing she can do until the robot completes its task. A growl just below her makes her chuckle, and without looking she pats her faithful companion’s head. At least she’s not the only one who’s feeling impatient.

‘In a minute, buddy.’ She tells Dogmeat, and the german shepard gives her hand a slight lick before turning back towards the door. The big dog turns stock still, back ramrod straight and ears flicking back and forth for any suspicious noises. He’s waiting for her go ahead.

It comes soon enough. She braces herself on the wall as an explosion rattles the building, quickly followed by blood curdling screams. Evelyn looks down at the german shepard.

‘Now, boy.’ Evelyn tells him, and he gives an almost eager yip before running through the door ahead of her. She follows at his heels. She’s got a few minutes, tops, before the others get here.

He should be seven doors down from her apartment, according to the Minutemen intel. God, she hopes the information is correct, because if not she’s blown her only chance to save him. The scavengers would rather put a bullet in his brain than give him up.

On the plus side, at least she’s cleared a path now. More than cleared, she thinks with a morbid sort of hilarity, as she nears the newly blown-out hole leading into the apartment. Half the wall is gone and nothing remains of the door, just large splinters of wood scattered around the room. No survivors in the blast, either, just bits and pieces of robot machinery mixed in with human limbs and blood spatters. The robot had been more thorough than she’d anticipated.

At least they died quickly, but a small disappointed chuff from her german shepard companion as he wanders in doesn’t share that relief. She steps in as he trots down towards a bedroom door on the far side the room almost untouched by the blast. Dogmeat turns his head and barks at her.

‘No need to tell me the obvious.’ Evelyn informs him, and the dog tilts his head and sniffs before backing away.

Evelyn kneels down to examine the lock. She frowns. It’s a basic, run-of-the-mill pin tumbler lock, nothing special, and hardly something that would have kept a particularly determined synth from barrelling through the wood like it was paper.

Something is very off here. A _synth_ is being contained within a bedroom with a lock flimsy-looking enough that if she poked it she half expected it to shatter under touch alone. Fact was, she’d been expecting to break him out of a _cell_. This whole venture is proving far too easy.

A nagging suspicion forms in Evelyn’s mind. Rather than reach into her jacket pocket for the bobby pins she moves her hand to the handle instead. Biting her lip, she turns the handle.

Without any sort of resistance, the door swings open and she steps in.

At the very least he should be chained and bolted to a bed. Well. He is cuffed with his hands behind his back, that’s true enough, but he’s sitting cross-legged on a dirty mattress with his head down. He could just as easily have risen and walked away.

Despite his bedraggled state there is evidence of the man she once knew. The Danse she knew was a solid man with a muscular build, usually covered from head to toe in power armour. That strong chin and brow would always, and she would never admit this out loud, send a small thrill through her chest. Despite the obvious loss in weight she’s somewhat relieved to see he is still a muscular and broad-shouldered man. The perks of being a synth, she guesses.

It’s bad enough that he’s wearing little more than rags and boots with the soles peeling off, oh no, worst of all is his gaunt appearance. The synth she knew was a meticulous man, almost obsessed with his appearance. This… version… of him stinks to high heaven of oil and leather, his dark brown hair is matted and greasy, and his beard far scruffier than she remembers it. There are also suspicious-looking scars running up his arms that look in no way war-related. Those markings scare her.

Worse yet is when Danses’s dark brown eyes meet hers. The old Danse would always, always meet her gaze directly, completely unflinching no matter the circumstances. This Danse, though, seems barely be able to meet her gaze, eyes blood-shot and completely sunken into his head. He’s struggling just to hold his head up.

‘I know you,’ he mutters, but it’s more to himself than her. He hangs his head again as if blocking her from his line of sight.

Evelyn knows a chem-addict when she sees one. It shouldn’t be unusual, really, when the world’s gone to hell in hand basket and it’s surprising how few people she knows who haven’t at least… dabbled. She’s been one herself. If he’d gotten to a point where he was blitzed off his brain, it would partially explain why the doors were unlocked, and even his lack of reaction to the explosion. The scavengers wouldn’t need to lock a door if they’d given him something to keep him docile.

At least, Evelyn would have thought that had he been _human_. She didn’t think it was possible for a synth to succumb to addiction.

Dogmeat is very quiet behind her. Evelyn moves slowly, slowly towards the man on the bed, making no threatening movements. She kneels down to the now rocking man.

‘Danse.’ She murmurs quietly, and he startles in response, ‘Do you know who I am?’

He stops his rocking to glance up at her, squints. ‘I know… you,’ he repeats.

‘Do you know my name?’ Evelyn coaxes gently.

The big man only shrugs carelessly. He’s not hostile, thank goodness, but it’s such an uncharacteristic gesture that she’s unnerved all the same.

She tries again, keeps her words simple, ‘I’m Evelyn, Danse. I came to rescue you.’

He singularly unimpressed, and she’s never seen anyone so uninterested in being rescued. Worse, she’s out of time. If she’s going to do this, it has to be _now_.

‘Sorry,’ she murmurs as she removes her pistol from its holster and smacks him on the temple with it. Danse flops back soundlessly, unconscious on the first hit. Evelyn ignores the small throb of guilt as she places the gun back in the holster and raises her pip-boy to her face, fingers once again moving across the screen. The voice of a second robot answers her call. She can hear its metallic whine as it stomps up the stairs.

She wasn’t exactly expecting the synth to be (seemingly) chem-added or expecting to have to injure him herself. Evelyn was, however, expecting him to injured, and she’s nothing if not cautious, so it’s a damn good thing she makes provisions in case of emergencies.

 

***

 

When she meets the small group halfway back to Sanctuary Hills, the expression on Preston’s face is nothing short of murderous. She didn’t completely blame him, and to be fair, she _had_ snuck away without telling him or anyone else.

When they head back the group is uncomfortably silent apart from the slight metallic whines from the robot and the sound of boots on tarmac. It’s Preston who breaks the silence first.

‘You snuck away,’ his tone is nothing short of an accusation. ‘What you did was reckless, general.’

She glances at the group behind her - there are three volunteers including a ghoul in a suit and an older human settler with greying hair. Dogmeat and the robot follow closely behind. To her right is a very grumpy Preston in his heavy duster yet strangely bereft of his cowboy hat. She guesses he left the worn-out thing back in Sanctuary Hills, which is bad news for her which so many ways. If she’d been hoping his temper had cooled after a few hours of travel, well, she’s sorely mistaken. Preston without his hat is like a man without food or water, and it only served to further make him cranky and irritable and not at all his usual helpful, upbeat self.

Her focus turns to the Assaultron with its vaguely humanoid form. Its metal feet make a slight clunking sound as it moves, one red eye flashing and heavy metal arms holding Danse. She feels terrible for what she’s put it through, and she’ll at least pass it along to Codsworth to take care of. It can make a life for itself in Sanctuary or start its own elsewhere.

Then her eyes move down to the limp body clutched in the robot’s arms, ‘I did what I had to do.’

‘Did you? There were so many other ways you could have approached this,’ the dark-skinned man says flatly. ‘Safer ways.’

‘The mission was personal, Preston. It had nothing to with you or Sanctuary Hills.’

The man gives her a look that suggested she’d just jammed a pencil up his nose. ‘So. What? I just let the leader of the Minutemen slither off into the wasteland, alone, with absolutely no reinforcements and no plan? At the very least you could have stayed back _just_ long enough to formulate a strategy. You didn’t even do that. You just… left.’

Evelyn flinches. There’s not much she can say to that.

It’s almost a relief when the ghoul clears his throat uncomfortably. ‘We’re home,’ he says quietly, as though hoping this would end the argument.

It does, luckily, and even Preston’s eyes light up at the familiar sight.

Sanctuary Hills, Evelyn recalls once upon a time, used to be a thriving suburban area with nosy neighbours, lush gardens and white picket fences. Now, well, it’s got more in common with Goodneighbour than the idyllic suburbia in her memories. It’s something that Hancock likes to gleefully point out and she’ll agree with, to a point (she’ll flat out refuse the comparison when it comes to the trafficking of chems).

In any case, even from her view Sanctuary Hills looks more like a hodgepodge of varying types of buildings and structures, far from the perfect, uniform suburbia it used to be. What few houses had managed to survive the apocalypse are in various states of disrepair. Hastily constructed shacks and cabins sit next to far more defensible bunkers, and even from the bridge one can hear the noisy hum of the generators. The roads have large, gaping cracks along the tarmac and trees once lush with foliage are dead, twisted things that look suitably menacing in the wasteland landscape.

‘Mom!’

Shaun meets her on the other side of the bridge leading into town. He’s bouncing from foot to foot as she approaches him, grey eyes bright and a rifle scope clutched in his small fingers.

‘Hiya kiddo.’ She ruffles his hair, lips tilting up in a gentle smile. Evelyn nods to the scope, ‘working on something?’

For a brief second he frowns, before nodding, ‘sort of. I’m testing some modifications for the plasma rifle, but it’s not working quite the way I want to. Still, I think I’ve found a way to enhance the scope by one hundred and twenty…’

‘Whoa whoa, Shaun. Stop there. That’s a bit advanced for me.’

He sounds like a small adult and despite herself Evelyn grimaces. It’s useful for both herself and Sanctuary Hills when Shaun applies his mechanical know-how to the settlement, but sometimes she wished he acted more like a child his age. It was because of Shaun her little community is one of the most fortified towns in the area. If it became common knowledge of what he’s done to enhance the turrets alone, well, she doesn’t want to know.

He throws her a disbelieving look. ‘Why wouldn’t you understand me? You’re good with robots. Better than me.’

‘I do software, kiddo. I’d take hacking a robot to building one any day. You’re the genius with the hardware.’ Shaun giggles in delight when she ruffles his hair.

She would have been bothered, once upon a time, that her son would be proud of her hacking abilities. Now it’s just a matter of survival. He knows she’ll do what she has to do to protect him.

Shaun looks like her, far more than he ever did Nate. He has the same grey, almond shaped eyes as her. The same full lips and high cheekbones. There were more than a few features that he did share with her deceased husband, though, including the tanned skin, thin nose and light brown hair.

What’s more, the look he’s giving her at the moment is nothing short of the one Nate used to give Evelyn at even the mildest compliment. He beams like she’s given him a present.

‘So you rescued him?’ Shaun asks unexpectedly, ‘the synth?’

This unexpected change in subject throws her. There was a _reason_ she’d been quiet about who she’d gone to rescue. The Brotherhood and anyone associated with it were not well thought of in her little community, although the town did know of her… former… links to the organisation. She had ordered those few who knew about the rescue mission not to tell anyone. That included her boy, ‘who told you that?’

Shaun looks bashful for a second, then admits, ‘Codsworth.’

‘Of course he did.’ Evelyn remarks wryly, but at least Shaun is smart enough not to name the man. Her boy is astute, she’ll give him that. While she is more than aware her two-hundred year old Mr Handy robot had been rather enamoured of the young boy since she’d brought him back from the Institute, he hadn’t exactly made a secret of it, she is starting to realise how much Shaun has Codsworth wrapped around his little finger. She’d have words with her robot later.

Shaun’s eyes are wide, like he knows what she’s thinking. ‘Wait, not Codsworth. Someone else told me.’

‘Uh-huh. Want to tell me who?’

Shaun hesitates, ‘Strong.’

‘I doubt it, kiddo. With a few exceptions, Strong doesn’t pay much attention to anything that isn’t in range of his club. Try again.’

He doesn’t, and instead the boy falls on his last resort. Turning up the puppy dog eyes, ‘you won’t yell at him, will you?’

Evelyn ignores the sniggers from behind her and sighs. To be fair, Codsworth isn’t the only one whom her boy has wrapped around his finger, ‘no. No I won’t yell at him.’

There’s that beam again. The chuff from Dogmeat behind her sounds suspiciously like a chuckle.

Evelyn clears her throat at little too loudly and glances back at the robot. It’s the only one not laughing at her, ‘you. This way, please. My house.’

‘I’ll help!’

Evelyn can’t help but ruffle Shaun’s hair again. ‘He’s a friend, Shaun, but he’s in pretty bad shape. I don’t know what he’ll do or how he’ll react when he comes to. Better that he wakes up in an environment that’s quiet, calm, and has as little people as possible. So it’ll just be me, alone, at least for the time being. ’

Shaun looks disappointed, but a cleared throat from behind her assures Evelyn _what Preston thought of that idea._

Evelyn flinches, ‘and Preston, of course.’

The man nods.

‘But he stays behind the door.’ Evelyn adds in a warning tone, and while the grunt is irritated she takes it as an affirmative.

‘It stays open a crack,’ Preston retorts in an equally warning tone.

It’s Evelyns turn to grunt.

 

***

 

The first thing that greets Danse when he opens his eyes is a ceiling flecked with peeling paint.

There are small cracks running along it, revealing clouds heavy with rain. It’s oddly hypnotic and he thinks about falling asleep again. Then a wave of dizziness washes over him, quickly followed by a feeling of distress. It comes with the knowledge that something is very, very wrong, and at first he thinks it’s just because he was knocked unconscious. The throbbing just near his temple would be a good indication, but that’s nothing really all that new.

Oh, yes. He knows what’s wrong. The memories in his head are… damaged. Patchy.

From beside him a woman speaks. One whose tone is low and melodic and… familiar. ‘You’re awake. I thought I’d lost you there for a while.’

He bolts upright in his blankets. To fast, and his world spins around him just as hands grab at his shoulders. He almost makes the mistake of lashing out, until his head turns to the left just in time to see who it is.

Oh. So this would be his captor.

His immediate impression is of a woman of middling height in her late twenties or early thirties, of Asian appearance, and face strangely unmarked for a wastelander. A distant, almost clinical part of his brain assesses her as a pliable, easy target, perhaps a vault-dweller. But then his eyes meet hers and that impression immediately falls away. Those eyes are as weary and battle-hardened as any wastelander, and he’s close enough that he can see the tell-tale signs of crow’s feet and a lined brow indicative of stress rather than age.

‘Sorry,’ she immediately supplies before he can open his mouth. At his blank expression, she adds, ‘for knocking you out, I mean. Not really something I wanted to do, but you weren’t exactly in an agreeable state to begin with, and those raiders were coming in damn fast. So, yeah, kinda did what I had to do to get you out.’

Why is his captor apologising? How strange. Danse is not quite sure how to respond, and he’s even more stumped when her face falls in disappointment. It’s quickly masked behind a neutral expression.

After a few seconds of very awkward silence, he tries saying something, ‘I… know you.’ Danse tilts his head at her, ‘or at least, I think I do.’

‘You do,’ the woman reassures him, seeming relieved that he’s responding at all. When she’s sure he won’t lash out, she gives his shoulders a quick squeeze and leans back on her stool, wrapping her hands around her knees. It’s odd, but he wants her to touch him again. He’s had so little in the way of comfort lately.

He’ll settle for getting her to speak instead, ‘where am I?’

The woman smiles suddenly, like he’s done something incredibly clever. ‘Sanctuary Hills. You’ve been here before. Do you remember that?’

He smile falters when he shrugs. She sighs, ‘and here I was hoping you were just addicted to chems. Well, then. Let’s start with something simple. Do you know who you are?’

‘Danse.’ He replies simply. He’s proud he knows that much.

‘Yes, I know. Could you elaborate, perhaps?’

Danse doesn’t know what the woman wants of him. And then he does. Ah. ‘I’m a synth. Third generation.’

The woman flinches, ‘wow, that’s a cold way to introduce yourself. And not what I meant at all – guess I’m not being direct enough. I was _trying_ to ask you if have any recollection of who you _were_ , or the organisation you were once a part of.’

Danse shrugs again.

‘Nothing? Oh god. I don’t suppose you can tell me anything about the scavengers then.’

At least that’s something he can partially answer. ‘They’re my handlers.’

 _‘Handlers?_ you can’t possibly think of those as…’The woman seems shocked. She’s acting like it should bother him, and if he wasn’t so broken already he supposes it would. The scavengers, he knew, had done something to his programming to keep him pliant and docile. A distant part of his brain, a _tiny_ part, rails against this knowledge, but the feeling is so small it may as well be non-existent.

When the woman visibly breathes through her nose, the thought springs to mind that it’s something she does often, though how he knows he can’t say. ‘Okay, so you know your name, and what you are, just not _who_ you are. Not quite what I was hoping for, but I guess it’s a start. What, then, do you remember _?’_

It’s hard. Harder than he thinks to recall memories more than a few weeks old, but he manages, ‘I am - I was - a… scout, I suppose? I locate and retrieve supplies for the group. Food. Water. Weapons. That kind of thing.’

‘That sounds deceptively simple. From what sorts of places do you ‘retrieve’ these supplies? ’

For a second he considers not answering. He has a feeling she isn’t going like the answer. The man lifts his hand and uses his fingers to tick off a list. ‘Warehouses. Shacks. Farms. Houses. Basically anything with poor defences and plenty of resources.’

The woman’s eyes darkened, ‘they used you to raid settlements.’ It isn’t a question so much as a statement.

‘It’s kill or be killed.’ Danse says, as though that explained everything.

‘Kill or be killed.’ The woman’s eyes close to slits, and something like guilt flashes across them, ‘If I’d heard nothing else today except those four words, Danse, that would have been more than enough to tell me something is very wrong.’ She pauses, and he wants to ask how she would know that, but then her next words just leave him confused. ’Not only do those words go against your silly creed – it basically goes against everything you stand for. You whole job _before_ was to defend the helpless, even if it cost you your life.’

He frowns, ‘isn’t that why you captured me in the first place?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Captured. ’ Danse repeats, and his frown deepens. Maybe the woman isn’t quite right in the head. Maybe she’s more like him than he thought. He knows any number of things can do that to a human. Radiation. Accidents. Chems. He tries to put it in a way she can understand. ‘I’m just a synth. A robot. If I’m not of use to you in any way, what’s the point in having me here?’

‘Just a… Danse, you’re worth as much as anyone here.’

‘Human lives come first.’

The small snort that accompanies that statement is one of amusement, ‘that’s more like the old you, but still completely wrong.’  

A small sliver of panic runs across his chest. So supply retrieval was not the greatest job in the world, but it’s something. It gives reason him to exist. A purpose. Danse may not have many memories of _before_. Really, he barely knows who he is now. Still, he strongly senses he was the kind of person who needs a purpose in life. Without it, well, he doesn’t see much point in even living then.

He starts shifting around in the cot, ‘then what’s my purpose? Why am I here?’

She can see he’s agitated, grabs his hand before he can get worked up, ‘hey hey. Whoa there. We’ll give you a purpose, Danse. Just one that doesn’t involve the killing of innocents.’

‘Then…’

‘I also have no plans to melt you down and sell your parts for scrap,’ the woman interrupts smoothly, eerily aware what he’s going to say before he says it. ‘So. First things first. We’re going to need to do a few things.’

‘What do you mean?’

Danse should have reacted to the hand that reached out for his face. He could think of any number of ways to break her arm when her hand cups his cheek. At the very least, he _should_ have moved his head away when she gently thumbs a small scar running down his cheekbone.

But he doesn’t. He lets her keep it there, and in fact finds himself leaning in to that warm hand. It’s a gesture he has no memory of and yet at the same time felt horribly familiar.

‘We’re getting your memories back.’ She whispers fiercely, ‘one way or another.’

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there. Thanks for taking the time to read!
> 
> As I've still got my head in Fallout at the moment I was kind of in the mood to write a fic, so here it is, loosely based on the aftermath of some of the Brotherhood and Institute quests. It was a toss up between writing a fic about Nick or Danse as I found the synth companions pretty interesting in-game. While it took me a while to warm to Danse as a companion he got more interesting later on, so I decided to go with Danse in the end. Must admit I kind of broke him a little bit more than I intended to.


End file.
